


Fusion

by deslea



Series: Fusion [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Cursed Child backstory (no direct spoilers), F/M, Fic, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Order of the Phoenix missing scenes, psychological dysfunction ahoy, theories about Voldemort and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deslea/pseuds/deslea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It pleases him, that she is angry for him. It is love, this. The truest kind. Maybe the only kind he can accept. Order of the Phoenix missing scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fusion

**Author's Note:**

> This is expected to be the start of a series that serves as a Cursed Child backstory, but it also works as a standalone piece, with no direct spoilers. In other words - you can read this one safely if you haven't boarded the CC train yet and/or don't intend to.

The boy thinks he cannot love.

It is nonsense, Dumbledore's nonsense. Only those who fancy themselves as _good_ believe love to be reserved for themselves. Everyone else, the practical, the ruthless, the humble, the evil, the weak - everyone else knows it is the domain of all, a matter of nature, unremarkable but unquestionable, as surely as breath itself.

But from that belief, the boy has summoned memories of love, and they are memories that hurt.

Where for _him_ was the mother who held him close? _His_ mother gave birth in an orphanage, preparing to give him up. Where for _him_ were the loving guardians? _His_ guardian was a wizard who hated him because he was too much like him, and told anyone who would listen that he was a psychopath in the making. And in the end, Dumbledore had warded him out of his home, like an intruder, a criminal, at a time when he had never lifted a wand against it.

He had pursued the prophecy, thinking it was the explanation for it all. But now that he is inside the boy's mind, he understands it all anyway.

The curse is not some mystical thing, no. The curse is quite simply that the boy's mother loved him, left him with precious gifts and heritage, and his did not. That was the beginning of it all for them both. It is why he has been cursed, over and over, turned out, looked on with suspicion, he, who could not even secure the love of his own mother, through no fault of his own. 

It is unfair, but it is human, to value that which others value. Love is a contagion, and he just…missed it. The boy caught it. It is why the boy is blessed with greater minds and wands than his own. He is nothing special, this boy. He is as ordinary as Snape has always said. He has been lucky, in birth and in how people see him because he was born to a mother who loved, nothing more than that.

Of course, the boy must still die. There is too much myth and legend built around him now.

But he sees now that the boy is life-sized. He will kill the boy now if he can, but if he cannot, he will take out his protectors one by one and turn his attention back to the boy later. Either outcome is tolerable, now. Now that he understands how insignificant the boy truly is.

Not that he will stop there, no. The boy is almost nothing, but Dumbledore and his ilk, oh, they will pay. The ones who looked on him as worthless. The ones who were unfair. The ones who judged him for the sins of the mother and took his home away. He will kill them all before this war is done, and he will take the school back from them, stone by stone if he must. He will kill everyone who thought they could take what was _his_.

Within the stale hurt inflicted by the boy's clumsy efforts to drive him out, he knows a moment of utter peace and calm. He is struck by the _ordinariness_ of it all. The lovelessness of his birth is something he has overcome before, and he can do it again. An old foe, this, and a weak one. Not the unknown and powerful enemy he had once supposed. He is great, his enemy is small, and it is going to be all right.

The boy's memories continue to assail him, moments of childish friendship, boyish kisses. They do not bother him, now that he understands, but he does know a moment of satisfaction. In this, at least, he has more. He has Bella. She is worth a hundred of the boy's sentimental, weak-willed compatriots. 

_It is human, to value that which others value._ But Bella valued him from nothing and nowhere, just him. A rare thing, he knows. The boy's allies are his through contagion and sentiment, and many will fall away. Bella is his through merit and worth, and she is his without limits or condition. She will never fall.

"Master," she cries out in the peripheries of his consciousness. She is pinned by the statue, he remembers - Dumbledore will pay for that - but she will live. He can even forgive her mistakes here, now. Now that he understands.

_Be still, Bella,_ he thinks, allowing the thought to reach her. _It's all right._

She quietens.

Well, he has the chance, and he might as well try to take them both, the boy and his protector. He tightens his hold over the boy's body and speaks through the boy's mouth. _Kill me now, Dumbledore. If death is nothing, kill the boy._ Nonsense, utter nonsense, but maybe just enough for Dumbledore to rationalise, just for a moment. Just long enough to strike out at _him_ , in hopes of killing him, and take the boy instead. The guilt would rip the old bastard apart. A fitting end, indeed.

He'd started the evening on a mission to destroy his supposedly-destined enemy, and now he is ending it in a lazy game of checkmate over the miserable pawn that he really is. How marvellous.

"My Lord," Bella cries, and there is a note of panic in her voice that is quite unlike her. " _They're coming._ "

That panic draws his attention. There within the boy's being, he stills.

An image launches into his brain, thrust there wildly by her. Fireplaces in the atrium roaring to life. Not children, but people of the Ministry. 

Well, no matter. They can't hurt him. 

But then, a split-second later, it impresses itself on him that that they can hurt _her_.

_It won't be Azkaban, not this time. It will be the Dementors._

At this thought, his preternatural calm shatters. He is jolted from his carefully-woven enmeshment with the boy, all self-possession lost. Suddenly aware of his belly, cold and hard like molten lead; of his flesh, chills falling over him in waves. This is terror, something he has not felt since he was mortal.

He recoils, and finds himself standing, outside the boy's body. Green lights flash and he looks up at the fireplaces and the people emerging, frozen for a split-second before his gaze falls on Bella.

_You can't have her,_ he thinks, and the thought comes out as a snarl as he strides towards her, thrusting the statue aside, leaving only rubble. He roars with fury at those who approach them as he clutches her hard against him, and Apparates away.

His last thought before they are swept away is that he will kill every last one who thought they could take what was _his_.

* * *

_Mine,_ he thinks. _Mine._

He thinks it as he touches her, his hands all over her. Patting down her body, looking for broken bones. "Bella," he rasps, his voice an assault, even to his own ears. "Are you all right?" 

It may be the most loving thing he's ever said to her, but it sounds like the cruellest.

"I'm all right," she protests, a bit vaguely. Still disoriented.

"How do you know? Dumbledore dropped a _statue_ on you," he says. He is still touching her, roughly moving her body and inspecting her. "How dare he. How _dare_ he."

"I'm all right," she says again, as he turns her face from side to side, but it isn't true. She is thinking the same as him: _This time, it would have been the Dementors._ It is a mild night, but gooseflesh is rising on her arms. It was close, and she knows it. She knows it even better than he does.

Hearing the thought, his hand stills on its path down her throat. "Never," he hisses. He looms over her, his eyes blazing determination and fury. "They'll never have you." He thrusts his arm around her waist, across her back, hauling her up roughly against him so his face is inches from hers. _"Never."_

_"Never,"_ she hisses. Her expression betrays a riot of things - shock and fear, confusion at his behaviour too, but beneath them, unmistakable, is pleasure. It is there in her wide, gleaming eyes, her rising colour, her parted lips. She knows what it means, his rage, and it pleases her. His possessiveness pleases her.

It fuels his fury, his urgency. He drags her closer, up on her toes, so she can feel his breath on her. It wasn't sex before, but _fuck_ , it is now. He wants to fuck her until she can't see or think of anything _but_ him. 

She is already falling back against the wardrobe when he shoves her there, hard. She gives a low gasp of satisfaction when he does it, her hips already falling open, a hollow cradle against which he lands. _"Mine,"_ he hisses as his mouth meets hers, demanding, feral. 

"Yours," she whispers as she kicks off her shoes. Breathes it again and again, a mantra as he cradles her breast, gripping and kneading through thin fabric.

"Mine," he hisses again, and she arches, whimpering into his mouth. Writhing as he drags her dress down over her shoulders, baring them. As he drags it up, finding warmth with his hands.

"Yours, every inch of me, yours," she blurts, barely coherent, as though sense has all but left her, abandoning her to a world of nothing but him, his mouth on hers, his fingers claiming her, over and over.

The litany of _yours_ and _mine_ breaks up as she comes, as she sinks, legs buckling, against the wardrobe. He hears fragments of thought as her bearings return, as she looks for the first time at where he has brought them.

_Small room. Child's room. Not a loved child._ Then, a second after that, _Orphanage._

"Yes," he says. "I bought it when _he_ locked me out of Hogwart's."

This brings her anger up, pink spots rising in her cheeks. _"Bastards,"_ she hisses, grasping at his shoulders. It pleases him, that she is angry for him. It is love, this. The truest kind. Maybe the only kind he can accept.

"It's the only home I can go back to," he snarls. Wanting to feed her anger, wanting it to burn bright in her when he takes her.

" _I'm_ your home," she growls. " _This_ body. _This_ heart." Her hair is wild and her eyes are preternaturally dark and her words are a caress delivered with long, sharp claws. _"Yours."_

He kisses her once more, with a feral, feline hiss. Rucks up her dress around her waist, releases her mouth with a roar of frustration to drag it over her head. She ducks under it to kiss him again before he finishes getting it off her arms. Her fingers tangle in the laces and he hauls it away with a guttural sound that makes the street lights outside flicker. 

She waves a hand vaguely towards the little bed. Says, floundering, between fierce, breathless kisses, "The - we -"

"Yes," he says, manoeuvring her there, laying her down and covering her with his body, relishing again that cradle of her hips, the way she opens for him and waits. He wants to fill her, claim her, mark her insides with him. Displace everything in her that isn't _him._

He kisses her. Kisses her like he wants to devour her. She kisses to _be_ devoured, mouth falling open, taking him with little gasps and sighs.

She is tugging restlessly at his robe, not removing it, but _wanting_ to. It's something he hasn't allowed since he's had this new body, but he needs it, too, needs to be skin to skin with her. With a growl, he pulls back from her and drags it over his head.

She is stretching out there beneath him, ready, and Merlin, so is he. He sinks into her heavily, slowly, deeply, like a great pendulum, pulled by gravity to rest in her. Resting perfectly, rising away, resting once more. Slow, inexorable rhythm. Like waves crashing on grey, desolate shores. 

It is a law of nature, this. She is his perfect fit, his other half, meant for him, _made_ for him. It's why she loves him. It's why he lets her.

"Mine," he growls again, but lower this time. At last, the white-hot fury is petering out. At last, there is rest.

"Yes," she sighs, low, deep and satisfied. Her body rocks against his, leisurely, evenly. A slow, rolling weight matching his own.

Their climax isn't a rising thing, but a sinking one, a deepening. Deep, slow sounds. Deep, slow shudders. A deep grinding. A fusion.

A long, long time later, when their bodies have stilled and their kisses have ebbed, he murmurs again, "I'll never let them take you."

"I know." They are spooned tightly together in his little child's bed. "You would have killed me before you'd have let them have me."

"Yes."

It is a loving thing, for him, and she takes it that way. He is holding her around her shoulders, and now, her hand finds his arm. Strokes it companionably. She says only:

"Good."

END


End file.
